


Steps

by HamburrgerBites



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron Burr in denial, Ballroom Dancing, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Dont say I didnt warn ya, Fluff and Smut, Laf is a HamBurr shipper, Lawyer Aaron Burr, M/M, Scholar Alexander Hamilton, Short Chapters, flirty Alexander Hamilton, i cannot dance tho lol, i do try tho, or maybe pansexual, plot kinda exists kinda not, so dont expect accurate descriptions or moves, this really is a mess tho, umm what else, whatever that means
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamburrgerBites/pseuds/HamburrgerBites
Summary: In which a stubbornly heterosexual(???) Burr cannot handle the amazing compatibility he has with Hamilton.“Opposites attract but complements attach, non?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is quick(???) and funny(?) and fluffffffffffy.  
> Also, rating may go up for later chapters! ;)  
> Enjoy!

The marquis was hosting a ball and Burr was invited.

Usually, Burr would decline. He was swamped at the office, and his clients were getting more and more demanding by the day as his reputation soared. You would think they’d be more respectful instead, but _no_. Burr had to bite down his tongue so often now that he was afraid the tip will be severed right off one of these days.

He buttoned his shirt up and let out a slow sigh.

Tonight, he was going to give himself a break, responsibilities be damned.

He checked his appearance in the mirror a final time. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore this suit. It was one of his best. It even came with matching socks, which was ridiculous, but undeniably helpful. He’d shaved and styled his hair. He could do nothing about the eyebags, though, but somehow they drew more attention to his eyes, which was always a good thing when trying to woo someone.

What? He had been working himself to the bone and damn well deserved a little night of fun and surrender to blow off all his steam.

He grabbed his keys and rolled his shoulders, flexing his muscles.

It was time to see whether he still had it in him.

* * *

He _definitely_ still had it in him.

Music was being played by a live orchestra as partners danced and onlookers conversed. Burr leaned sideways against a wall, a slender glass of wine in his hand.

In front of him, the girl he had chatted up was blushing and blubbering so much Burr had stopped trying to understand her incoherence and just focus on how beautiful she was. _Damn_. How should he play this?

He was trying to come up with a plan—how to be delicate about his, ah, short-term intentions—when he heard footsteps stopping close behind him, and a hand tapping his shoulder the instant later.

“Pardon me.”

Burr turned in the middle of the girl’s unintelligible sentence.

He almost spilled his wine.

The man was in a dark green suit with a silver tie—unconventional, conspicuous. His inky hair was slicked back and Burr could smell a distinct cologne on him—what was that? Bergamot and rosewood? He was shorter, obviously younger, but he stood with his shoulders squared and his head boldly up. But all that wasn’t what had caught Burr off guard.

His _eyes_. Burr recognised instantly that glint of _intention_ in them. _It was the same way he was looking at the girl._

“I’m Alexander Hamilton,” the man said, his tongue smooth, sticking out a forceful hand.

Burr blinked.

The man took a step closer, unperturbed as he lowered his unshaken hand. “Would you like to dance?”

“What?” Burr blurted.

The room felt suddenly warmer and smaller. He looked around, almost certain everyone would be watching. But the dancers kept on dancing and the conversationalists kept on conversing.

When he looked back to the man, he was smirking, as if he knew something Burr didn’t.

“I—uh—” Burr stammered. _What the hell_? Aaron Burr wasn’t a stammering man! He glanced back at the girl he’d chatted up almost helplessly. “Apologies—uh—I already—with Miss—Miss—” _Shit_. What was her name again?

“Your friend?” the man in the dark green suit— _Alexander Hamilton_ —asked lightly, blinking over Burr’s shoulder innocently. “I’m sure she won’t mind me stealing you away for a bit, will you, my lady?”

The girl blushed and shook her head.

Hamilton winked at Burr, and that was when Burr snapped out of it.

He straightened and took hold of the girl’s hand. (Seriously, though, what was her name again?) He gave Hamilton a charming smile—absolutely shone his whites at him. “Thank you,” he said evenly. “However, my night is all set.” He dipped his head in a small bow. “Good evening.”

And with that, he pulled the girl’s hand and let the crowd help them disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh. I thought it was going to be short lol. This may turn out to be at least three chapters long lol how did that happen.  
> Ham’s suit has nothing at all to do with any Hogwarts houses, no sir, nuh-uh, nope.  
> Dancing scene is in the next chap! Will upload soon-ish!  
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading, fam. <3


	2. Chapter 2

Lafayette gave Burr a tight hug.

“I am so happy you could attend this time, _mon ami_!” the marquis gushed. “I have so many people to introduce to you. You have fallen so far down the social ladder, did you know? Of course you do, you are a hopeless workaholic, such a shame.”

Burr laughed, not feeling offended in the least—partly because it was true, and partly because he and Lafayette went so back the fondness outweighed any possibility of insult.

“Go easy on me tonight, will you, Laf?” Burr said, grinning. “I have my own intentions for attending.”

“ _Ooohhhhh_ ,” Lafayette drawled, wagging his eyebrows. “I can see that.”

Burr glanced behind him. The girl— _Maria_ —was chatting with her friends, easily the most appealing out of the group. Burr was _definitely_ bringing her home.

“Oh! Oh!” Lafayette suddenly said, spotting someone across the room. “I have been _dying_ to introduce you to this one! Hold on.” And he called out a name that made Burr’s entire body freeze.

_Shit_.

The man heard Lafayette and turned to approach them, that fucking smirk on his face.

“Burr,” Lafayette said excitedly when the man in the dark green suit reached them. “This is Alexander Hamilton. Hamilton, this is Aaron Burr.”

Hamilton’s smirk ate up his whole face. “We’ve met,” he said, smug as an ass.

“You _have_?” Lafayette exclaimed, and Burr couldn’t understand why the heck he sounded so happy.

“Fleetingly,” Burr said, smiling tightly. “If you would excuse me—”

Lafayette’s hand on his arm was like a vice. “Have I mentioned that Hamilton is a scholar? Law, history, literature, philosophy—there is nothing he does not know.”

“A single person can’t know everything.” Burr tried to keep his tone light, but the words were emitted between gritted teeth.

“You would be surprised,” Lafayette countered easily. “Well?” Lafayette said, directing the word at Hamilton. “Go ahead and charm him.”

Hamilton’s smirk impossibly grew as Burr felt a flush creeping onto his face.

“I’ve tried,” Hamilton admitted, unabashed, and Burr wanted the floor to eat him up right then and there. “But I’ll try again if you think I might get anywhere, Laf.”

“Well of course you will get somewhere,” Lafayette declared cluelessly. “You two are very similar. Opposites attract but complements attach, _non_?”

Burr was looking everywhere except at Hamilton. Heat was still flushing his face, and he knew if he even for the briefest second met Hamilton’s eyes—those _eyes_ —it would have been too obvious to hide. He was furiously trying to come up with an excuse to leave—when the orchestra began playing a new song.

_Merciful heavens_.

“Maria adores this song,” Burr lied, nodding at the direction of the music. “I think I’ve neglected her long enough, don’t you, Laf?” Before giving his friend a chance to pull him back, Burr bowed briskly and left to lead Maria to the dance floor.

She was _ecstatic_.

So ecstatic, in fact, that she kept mis-stepping and stomping on his feet. Then, apologised profusely as Burr tried to smile above the pain (she was wearing _stilettos_ ) and assured her it was fine, before they started up the dance again and she stomped on his feet again.

When a new song began and the type of dance changed, Burr was almost limping. More people had joined the dance floor, recognising the song and wanting to be a part of the big dance. It was a mixer, and Burr knew he shouldn’t have been glad to swap partners—but boy was he glad to swap away his partner.

The orchestra began, and the dance started.

In synchronised moves, every dancer took a left step forward, then back. Took a right step forward, then back. The gentlemen bowed at the forward steps; the ladies curtsied. The partners put their hands together and spun around, once clockwise, then, changing hands, once anticlockwise. They drew back, and this was the part Burr was waiting for.

Simultaneously, each lady twirled out of her gentleman’s grasp, and each gentleman held out his arms and waited. If the gentleman was lucky, he’d find himself with a new, willing partner. If he wasn’t, he was to leave the floor courteously when the next note began.

Burr held out his arms and, though he didn’t have to, closed his eyes. He didn’t want to stop dancing yet, not when Lafayette was out there (unconsciously or not) trying to set him up with _that man_. He closed his eyes and waited and hoped he was lucky.

His outstretched hands brushed a flutter of skin, and he let out a relieved breath.

“Good evening,” his new partner said, and Burr snapped his eyes open.

Alexander Hamilton was smirking up at him.

Burr dropped his arms. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“I’m dancing.” He batted his eyelashes innocently.

Burr opened his mouth to protest when the orchestra started up the next tune. Hamilton reached out and took Burr’s hands. A shot of lightning zapped through Burr at the contact. He yanked his hands back.

“I did not agree to this,” he said tightly.

“Well,” Hamilton said, tilting his head. “It’s not up to the gentleman to decide now, is it?”

“What?”

Hamilton took his hands again, and this time he was firm enough to fight off Burr yanking them away. He put one of Burr’s hand on his waist, and intertwined the other in one of his as he rested his other on Burr’s shoulder—smoothly positioning himself in the role of the female dancer. He took a step closer, and Burr found it suddenly hard to breathe properly.

“Come on,” Hamilton whispered into Burr’s ear. “You’re ruining the synchronicity.”

He was. The other dancers had taken up the steps and were twirling around them. Burr caught one or two glancing at them in curiosity, but most were too invested in their own dance to split their attention.

Hamilton drew an inch back—and Burr was surprised when he saw that the smirk was replaced by a smile. “Just imagine I’m Maria,” Hamilton encouraged, his smile genuine.

Then, he closed his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Burr asked dumbly.

“Shhh,” Hamilton hushed him gently, his eyes still closed. “Just start the dance.”

Burr looked around in distress. Did _nobody_ think this was absurd? He couldn’t spot Maria, or Lafayette, or anyone else that he was acquainted with—

So maybe—Maybe he could get away with this?

Burr took a deep, steadying breath. Hamilton’s cologne flooded his senses. The spot where Hamilton’s hand rested on his shoulder—and the palm of his own hand on Hamilton’s waist—and their clasped hands— _burned_ as hotly as Burr’s face was.

Tentatively, Burr took a left step forward.

At the same time, Hamilton, his eyes ever closed, took a right step back, matching Burr’s move perfectly.

Burr’s heart was pounding. A bit faster this time, Burr retracted his forward step.

At the same time, Hamilton retracted his back step.

_How_ —

But Burr swallowed the question. He breathed in long again—Hamilton’s scent or the wine or the absurdity of it all dizzying him—and started up the dance in earnest.

He fell in step with the other dancers, and in his arms, Hamilton was matching his steps exactly, his movement fluid, his face serene.

_There is nothing he does not know_ , Lafayette had said.

_Okay, so he knows the steps for the ladies_ , Burr conceded. _That doesn’t mean he knows how to dance everything._

_Does it_?

Burr’s feet were already throbbing from Maria’s missteps, anyway. He clenched their interlaced hands, thought, _Oh, what the heck, I’m already dancing with him_ , and made a spontaneous step to the right.

Alexander Hamilton fucking matched his step perfectly.

Burr didn’t miss a beat. He took two steps forward and slid his toe across in a semicircle—as Hamilton took two steps back and slid his toe alongside Burr’s.

“How are you doing this?” Burr hissed, half in disbelief, half in admiration.

Hamilton grinned, and Burr felt a sudden shift in authority. Hamilton stepped forward as Burr stumbled back in surprise. With hints of pressure from his hands, he led Burr into a spin—and now they were dancing their own dance, Hamilton in control this moment, and letting Burr be in control the next.

_Just imagine I’m Maria_ , the man had said.

But Burr couldn’t. Maria didn’t dance like _this_. Hamilton was _vibrant_. His moves were not as small and calculated as Burr’s were. No mere steps to the right or the left—no. Hamilton _flowed_ into quick strides and whirls and glides and bursts of outstretched hands at the end of elaborate spins. Burr wasn’t dancing with Maria, he was dancing with _Hamilton_.

Burr’s heart pounded and pounded and _pounded_ , but—but he was keeping pace with Hamilton, and—and he was kinda, sorta, slightly, maybe, a bit— _enjoying_ it. They were dancing no established dance that he knew, and yet they moved in time and in tune with the music, composing new steps as they went along—and Burr felt _exhilarated_.

Burr could feel Hamilton bracing himself, and he knew he was preparing his finishing move. Hamilton lifted their hands with a flourish and gathered their momentum into his twirl, Burr’s hand above his head as his anchor. He spun once—twice—four times— _seven_ times—tried for an eighth but fell back—

Fell back and Burr caught him—catching him by the waist as he leaned back and pointed his toes and curved his arm in an elegant arc and it was as if it had been choreographed.

The music ended and Burr pulled Hamilton up gracefully, delicately as though they were still dancing. His heart was going wild in his chest, and when the man fluttered his eyes open and met his gaze with a slow smile, Burr found himself breathless. They were so close. Burr’s eyes darted down to Hamilton’s smile and he licked his lips. Damn. When was the last time he kissed someone?

When was the last time he wanted to kiss someone so badly?

A sudden chorus of clapping snapped him back. Burr looked up and saw that a space had been emptied out for them— _Hamilton and him_ —as the other dancers had drawn back to watch them. Burr spotted Maria gushing excitedly with her friends and Lafayette with a stupid, knowing grin on his face.

Tangibly, Hamilton extracted himself from Burr’s embrace and turned to their audience. He gave an extravagant curtsy with his non-existent skirt, making the crowd laugh, as Burr flushed right down to his toes, the full impact of what had happened crashing down on him at once.

He tore across the floor and through the crowd, ignoring both Hamilton’s and Lafayette’s calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hashtag Lafayette numéro un HamBurr shipper.  
> Also, you can either regard Maria as the Reynolds one or really just a random Maria, it doesn’t matter HAHA.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

It was past midnight and Hamilton was tipsy from the wine.

He left the building and immediately the sounds of chatter and music died away to the silence of the deserted night. He cracked his neck and took in a deep breath of cool November, loosening his silver tie as he sighed it back out.

He felt like crap. Lafayette had tried to assure him that Burr wouldn’t hold it against him, but Hamilton wasn’t so optimistic. _Fuck_. All Hamilton had wanted to do was go out and have a little fun for once in his busy life. Was it so hard? Why did he have to go and mess his own night up?

He fished in his pocket for a box and pulled out a cigarette. Might as well push himself lower than he already was. He put the stick in his mouth and rummaged his pockets for his lighter. _Fuck_ , did he even bring it?

A familiar click pierced through the silence and Hamilton snapped his head up.

Aaron Burr was leaning in the shadows against the side of the building, a burning lighter in his uplifted hand.

Hamilton’s heart stopped. _Was he hallucinating_? He didn’t move.

Burr lifted the lighter higher to his face, the wavy light dancing on his features, and tilted the flame towards Hamilton’s unlit cigarette pointedly.

Hamilton dug his hands into his pockets and steeled his face. The walk towards Burr was languid, his shoes sending up slow, deliberate thuds into the air. He halted as close to the man as he could and leaned down into the flame. As unhurriedly as he’d walked, Hamilton inhaled a long drag, met Burr’s eyes coldly, and exhaled a lazy huff of smoke into the man’s face.

They stared at each other a long time. Hamilton couldn’t tell how Burr was feeling. He’d clicked the lighter shut and both of them were now in shadows. Hamilton wasn’t sure what he himself was feeling, either. _Angry_ , yes, of course he was—but at himself or Burr, he wasn’t really sure anymore.

With the light of his lit cigarette, Hamilton saw Burr’s eyes darting down to his lips—desire and anguish burning in them. He’d done the same right at the end of their dance, hadn’t he? Hamilton knew he should’ve felt worse about putting Burr into that situation, but now he was certain where his anger was primarily directed at. He could _see_ that Burr wanted him as much as he wanted Burr, so why _the fuck_ was he restraining himself?

Hamilton took the cigarette out of his mouth and turned away from the man lest his glare turned into a full-blown death threat.

“You left me hanging back there.”

A beat passed. The door to Lafayette’s party opened and shut, a jumble of laughter and music there and gone.

“I know,” Burr said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hamilton looked back to him, and Burr was still the same—hesitant, uncertain, _passive_ —and Hamilton felt the last of his energy drain out of his shoulders.

“Well,” he said, putting the cigarette back into his mouth and extending his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Burr.”

He was going to shake Aaron Burr’s hand goodbye, and that would be the last of it.

* * *

Hamilton exhaled smoke into Burr’s face, and Burr never felt more turned on in his life.

He locked with the man’s eyes and couldn’t believe how different they looked—cold, harsh and merciless. Hamilton was _angry_ , and Burr’s heart pounded in excitement—

_Fuck_. What was wrong with him tonight?

His eyes darted down to Hamilton’s lips, the cigarette hanging sexily between his teeth. Fuck, fuck _, fuck_. The guy was hot.

Hamilton turned away and took the stick out, and Burr couldn’t stop looking at his lips.

“You left me hanging back there.”

Burr’s breath hitched. _I’m sorry_ , he thought of saying. _I don’t swing that way_ , he thought again, but— _Bullshit_ , he answered himself.

The door to the dance opened, a cacophony of voices and music rising in the air, reminding Burr of the existence of other people—and suddenly he felt like he was running out of time.

“I know,” he finally answered, breathless as his mind buzzed in panic.

“Well.” Hamilton returned the cigarette to his mouth and extended his hand, and Burr felt the resignation in his tone as palpable as if it was solid. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Burr.”

_He’s giving up on me_ , Burr realised, a wave of disappointment jolting his nerves. _I should be glad. This was what I wanted, right?_

Silently, Burr took the man’s hand. Hamilton flinched in surprise, for Burr’s hand was ice cold from waiting outside for so long—waiting and feeling like an idiot and ready to flee every second except— _What if_?

They shook, the contact burning Burr’s palm, and Hamilton gave him a final smile.

_Now let go_ , Burr told himself. _Let go and never look back_.

Hamilton loosened his grip—and in a moment of impulse Burr _pulled_.

He pulled, and Hamilton’s eyes grew wide, and Burr took the cigarette from his lips, and leaned in and—

_Fuck_.

Hamilton tasted like smoke and recklessness. His lips were chapped and harsh and when Burr’s tongue met his, he could taste the wine from the dance, and he became dizzier, dizzier. Burr pushed at the man, and instead of meeting his step and retreating, Hamilton pushed as forcefully back.

When they broke apart, it was with ragged breaths, and _there_ —in Hamilton’s eyes—that glint of determined desire had returned with double the intensity.

“Come home with me,” Hamilton commanded, his eyes aflame.

“I—” Burr stammered. Swallowed. He couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t think coherently.

Somewhere beyond them a dog barked, and Burr snapped back into sense.

What the fuck was he doing? There was no way he was going back with Hamilton—

“I want you,” Hamilton growled, and Burr’s thoughts spluttered. “I want you in my bed and sweating and moaning for mercy _right this instant_.”

_Fuck me_ , Burr thought, and blushed hot at the words.

The cigarette was still in his hand. He pushed it at Hamilton’s face until Hamilton snatched it back. Stumbled back. “Why me? Why the fuck did you pick _me_?”

“Why did you pick _Maria_? Same reasoning,” Hamilton countered.

His words were ringing in Burr’s ears— _I want you_. Hamilton’s words— _Burr’s_ words. _I want you_. _I want to push you up against the wall and kiss you senseless. I want to pull you in by your stupid silver tie and make you forget your own name._ _I want to take off the layers of your suit one by one and_ —

“I can’t—” Burr choked out, staggering further away.

Hamilton took a step forward the same time the door to Lafayette’s ball opened again, and a group of people came out, laughing and wobbling drunk over one another.

Burr’s eyes snapped to them, then back to Hamilton, then back to the group again.

And he could see it in Hamilton’s eyes the same time he felt it—

“I can’t,” Burr said again, and he turned and, with people laughing and dogs barking behind him, left Hamilton to his lit cigarette as he himself delved deeper into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are accidental metaphors here that I'm not equipped to properly shape out lol.  
> Also, I have no idea where this is going everything’s a mess everyone abort while you can.  
> But thanks for reading HAHA.


	4. Chapter 4

It was days later—exactly thirteen days, in fact (not like Burr was counting, of course)—and Burr almost, _almost_ managed to extract the taste of Hamilton out of his mouth.

But every time he put alcohol to his lips (it didn’t even have to be wine, specifically) or every time a random smoker passed him by in the streets— _there_. The taste of Hamilton—the chill of that night—the fire in his purposeful eyes—came back full force, knocking Burr over with surprise even at the times he expected the memory to return.

Burr stopped at a pedestrian crossing, arms full of groceries, shaking his head as traffic and humans went about him. He needed to snap out of it. Needed to get a grip. Thinking about Hamilton had become almost an obsession, and it was _not_ healthy, nor was it fruitful. Burr was just running in circles, exhausting himself but getting nowhere.

It wasn’t like he was going to meet the guy again, anyway.

The lane cleared, and he began crossing the road. A group of teenagers, at the peak of their youth, laughed and pushed at each other as they dashed past him. To his other side, a woman in her corporate clothes talked on the phone, Starbucks in hand. Burr himself was casual—shirt and jeans. It was one of his rare days off, and he was making use of each second to the best he can—groceries, chores, his ever burgeoning to-be-read pile. He had so much to do, so much to think about.

But there goes his mind:

_Come home with me_ , Hamilton had said. Suit and tie. Eyes ablaze and unashamed. Curtsying prettily for a room full of cheering people.

_Ridiculous_.

Burr almost rolled his eyes—for to stamp out the butterflies he had to stoke up the wasps—but then he looked up and—

He stopped dead.

The woman on her phone didn’t even spare him a glance as she reached the other side. Others past him, too, but Burr saw none of them.

He had seen Hamilton.

Just—a glimpse. There and gone. Around the corner of the building right ahead. All at once the memory of the man flooded Burr’s senses—the hunger, the hot desire, the commanding _want_ of Burr and _no one else_ but _Burr_.

A honk sounded and Burr jumped.

“Shit.” He raised a hand in apology to the driver as he rushed to the other side. Really now. A glimpse and his legs go all jelly and his stomach goes all fluttery. This is _not_ getting a grip.

But he’d seen him. Clear as day. Or... did he?

Did he?

Burr’s feet hit the other side of the road and didn’t stop. Ran past the woman on the phone. Past the laughing teenagers. Where—

_There_. Around another corner—a flicker. Burr’s mind was blank as he dove into that direction as if by instinct. His groceries—eggs and fragile veggies—were definitely not happy at the sudden increase in speed of their ride to a new home, but Burr couldn’t help it. He couldn’t—

His breath hitched in his throat.

It _was_ Hamilton. Hamilton in _casual_. Hamilton with a messy bun and tee and cardigan and sweatpants and sneakers and earphones and _damn_.

The guy was _cute_.

“Fuck,” Burr cursed under his breath, ducking behind an old couple as Hamilton glanced around. Burr watched as he thumbed through his phone—changing the song?—then resumed walking in a new direction.

But that instant was enough for Burr to see his face almost fully. An uncharacteristic frown was etched on his brows, and Burr had to know why. He had to. _Why_ did he have to was yet to be seen, but Burr was a great multitasker. He questioned his rationality while simultaneously keeping at least five paces behind the man, no problem.

Compelled in this way, Burr followed him and tried not to think of the fact that he was essentially _stalking_ Hamilton. But it was broad daylight and he was unarmed and without motive. He’s just taking a detour back to his house, that’s all. A much needed walk for fresh air on a much needed day of rest.

Crap. He wouldn’t want to be his own attorney.

But it was _Hamilton_. Burr followed and couldn’t believe his eyes. He was prepared to never see the man again. Prepared to brush off the memory as no more than a mischance—an outlier in the consistently plotted graph of his life. For after that night, Burr had went back and flitted through his head for the faces of his known male associates.

Sure, Lafayette was handsome, Burr could readily admit that. But the Frenchman was so closely acquainted with him that they felt more like cousins, brothers even. Madison from work never caught Burr’s eyes, not in _that_ way, at least. His last client Laurens... Okay, yeah, so maybe Burr _had_ stared at that last one longer than was proper, but in his defence, the guy had a burst of freckles so captivating one couldn’t _not_ stare.

But Hamilton... Hamilton was... Wow. Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame. That stubbornness to keep his chin up and his shoulders broader than they were. That smooth charm and bold confidence to get his way no matter what. The fluidity of his movements in their dance. The half-hearted attempt at civility when he was obviously angry. His _lips_. The way he _kissed_ —

Burr bumped heavily into the person in front of him—a robust mother dragging a kid in one hand and carrying a baby on her hip with the other.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he stuttered as the woman bared her teeth at him like a lioness ready to tear his neck out. He gave a low bow and the woman narrowed her eyes to slits at him before continuing her way, the baby now wailing.

Burr felt guilty for only a second. Then he looked around and his heart raced. Hamilton was nowhere to—

No, wait, there he was—a curly mess of a bun bobbing amid other heads. A part of Burr considered letting the head bob out of sight, giving up the chase ( _a wild Hamilton chase_ ). But then his feet were already picking up speed again, boots making too loud a noise in their haste, as his mind rationalised, _You have to prove yourself wrong_.

Burr got within five paces near once more before Hamilton cut sharply into a space between two buildings—an alley that was shaded from the sun by the towering of its flanking structures. Burr hesitated. No other pedestrian seemed to be inclined to use that way. ( _So why was Hamilton..._?) It would have been too obvious. Going in would have given himself away.

He counted till ten before peeking into the alley. He blinked. Squinted harder. Yes, it was dark, but, no.

It was empty. Hamilton was gone.

Half doubting his own sanity now, Burr stepped into the alley. The sounds of the city tunnelled into a background drone in the enclosed space. Nothing moved, nothing appeared—empty boxes here, a trash can there. He got as far as the other end, equally creeped out and disappointed, before a sudden weight shoved him back into the darkness and slammed him hard into the wall. A gust of air knocked out of Burr more in shock than pain, as his groceries fell from his hands.

“You have three seconds to explain yourself,” his assailant growled and—

“Shit, Hamilton!”

The arms at his throat and chest slackened but didn’t retract. “Burr?”

“Yes—fuck—it’s me—” He couldn’t see Hamilton’s features properly in the dimness, but Burr saw Hamilton’s mouth drop open in an O, which the man quickly clamped shut.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Hamilton bit out, lowering his arms, but the frown that Burr had glimpsed had intensified into a glare.

An _accusing_ glare.

“Shortcut,” he blurted, not wanting to admit his not-really-crime, knowing Hamilton could tell it was a lie straightaway. “What are _you_ doing? Pouncing on fellow pedestrians a hobby of yours?”

“Only if they’re stalking me,” Hamilton retorted hotly. “Is _that_ your hobby?” Burr opened his mouth to counter but Hamilton glanced down at his watch and cursed. “I don’t have time for this. I was already late without _this_.” He gestured at Burr—the _entirety_ of Burr, and Burr felt both affronted and embarrassed.

Burr scoffed massively— _wasps before butterflies_. “As if you were going somewhere requiring punctuality in _that_.” And he mimicked Hamilton’s gesture, waving a hand at the entirety of Hamilton, leisurely outfit and dishevelled hair and all.

“I was going home to _change_ first,” Hamilton said through clenched teeth, and Burr was in utter disbelief how excited the man’s apparent anger was making him. The more he glared at him, the more Burr wanted to pull him into a kiss—

_No. No, no, no. NO._

Hamilton turned away in a huff and Burr couldn’t help frantically reaching out a verbal arm to pull him back.

“What are you late for?”

“None of your business,” Hamilton snapped. ( _Hot_ , Burr thought. Then, _shut up, Burr_.)

“Meeting someone?” Burr asked briskly, powered on by the fact that Hamilton hadn’t stormed away yet. “Laf said you’re a scholar. Meeting a fellow academic, then? For work? For—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hamilton looked like he wanted to punch both Burr and himself, “yes—yes, okay, _yes_ , alright? I’m meeting a student for a tutoring session, _happy_ now? Serious fuck, you’re annoying.”

_And you’re turning me on._

Gone was the charming and well-mannered gentleman he’d met at Lafayette’s ball. Hamilton’s look was far from pristine. A certain wildness was about him—his unkempt hair, his dark circles below his eyes. They were both in casual clothes and, in a way, Burr may not be the same person he’d projected that night, either.

Hamilton glanced at his watch again. “I need to go,” he said tersely, giving Burr a final glare, even going as far as jabbing a finger at his chest. “ _Stop following me, Burr_.” It was like a threat. The hint of the words “ _or else_ ” just hovering behind.

Hamilton strode out into the sunlight before Burr could stop him. He watched until he turned a corner and went out of sight, not looking back even once, and tried not to feel childishly hurt at that.

Burr slumped back into the dark, gathering his thoughts. (Trying to salvage what little dignity he had left.) A few deductions could be made, though the fact that he was making inferences didn’t soothe the sense of felony he felt in his roiling stomach.

First off, Hamilton lived near Burr’s. (Clothes and mode of transport said it all.) Burr _could_ get the specific address, if he’d wanted to. Surely in a directory somewhere. Or he could just test his luck and ask Lafayette—

But he wasn’t going to do that. So, next.

Hamilton was more hot-tempered and bad-mouthed than he’d let on, that night. Which just goes to show how much _setting_ influenced _character_. Put a man in a formal ball and he’d wax poetic. Plop the same man on the streets and he’d string vulgarity. (Burr, of course, was being consciously hypocritical here.) The fact that Hamilton had a dirty mouth and a fiery temperament did nothing in Burr’s favour, either. It brought, instead, Burr’s third observation:

That Hamilton, for some inexplicable, irrational reason, was extremely attractive to Burr. A completely baseless notion, without any hint of logicality. At all. Definitely not due to the messy bun. Or the cute cardigan. Or that adorable glare.

_Definitely not_ the way Hamilton, pliant and soft as water when they’d danced, was at the same time strong and powerful enough to slam Burr up against a wall. Nope. No.

No...

Fuck.

Burr needed to _get a grip_. It was clear Hamilton was not happy at their meeting again. Whatever had transpired between them on the night of the dance was in the past and needed to be forgotten. Burr was still the same person he was before and after. Nothing has changed. ( _Nothing’s changed, nothing’s changed_ , he chanted to himself for good measure.)

He’d made a mistake and _pulled_ when he should have let go. But that, like his attraction to Hamilton, was a deviance from the regular that he was going to make sure did not repeat itself.

He picked up his groceries, shook himself as if to physically discard his emotions, and headed off on the opposite direction of where Hamilton went, steps echoing in the gloom.

_Not_ looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody mention Burr has an anger kink shhhhhhhhh!  
> Thanks for reading! (I still have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter (and the next one after this) that raised the rating lol. Enjoy.

The full impact of what had happened in the alley only hit Hamilton after he came home from his tutoring session— _after_ he’d downed nearly a potful of much needed coffee.

His mind was kind in that way, stashing the thought away until Hamilton had the time and attention enough to feel truly mortified.

_He’d been thuggish with Burr._

“ _Ohmffgahhd_ ,” Hamilton screamed, muffled, into his bed. Then—

_Burr had been stalking him._

“ _OHHMAHGFFDDD_.”

_He’d slammed Burr into a wall._

“ _Stoppppp_ ,” Hamilton wailed to his own bedroom wall.

_He called Burr annoying._

“Well, he was!” Hamilton cried, near tears. “In his stupid casual t-shirt and carrying fucking groceries like a stupid fucking adorable—”

_Shit_ , Burr was _so cute_. He was _exactly_ Hamilton’s type.

“But I’m not _his_ type,” Hamilton countered himself. Guy was so straight police probably gave him an automatic pass on sobriety tests.

But—

Hamilton bit his lip. Closed his eyes. And, _there_. Wine and smoke. Burr’s woody cologne. His tailored full black suit—shirt, jacket, tie. The chapped, cool lips from waiting outside for so long. Waiting for _Hamilton_. The dark pool of desire in his eyes.

Hamilton had spotted Burr the instant he’d walked in to Lafayette’s party. Stood taller and tried to make himself as conspicuous as possible as he watched the man scanning the room, obviously seeking out a potential partner to spend the night with (as Hamilton had been doing when he’d spotted him).

But Burr’s eyes had swept right by him—blinder than a bat’s—and, Hamilton noticed, right by every single gentleman. Hamilton had felt positively insulted when Burr’s eyes finally lit up on Maria. (No offence to her, but _that_ dress with _those_ heels, _really_?) Hamilton would’ve huffed and retreated courteously—only he was never one to retreat, courteously or otherwise. Especially not from a challenge so tantalising his entire body felt charged with the idea of succeeding in bringing home someone so _adamantly undeviating_.

So Hamilton had tapped his shoulder. Saw that glint of _potential_ in his eyes and stammer. Knew that he could— _would_ —succeed if he persisted—

And felt utterly electrified when Burr had been the one to kiss him first.

“Fuck,” Hamilton cursed now, feeling his heart rate speeding from the memory. He’d changed from his tee and sweats to a button-down and slacks, but the more formal clothing only intensified the vision in his head. Burr hadn’t smelled like his cologne today—a special thing he used only on occasion, then. He’d looked so good in casual, though. _Delicious_ , even. Items of clothing that were far easier to take off than a three-layered suit. Hamilton had _slammed_ him up _against a wall_. “ _Fuck_.”

Hamilton moaned, and that image was there. The cool night of the ball and the heated day in the alley, merging, morphing, perfecting itself into a single fantasy. Burr offering him a flame and Hamilton puffing smoke into the man’s face, watching as his eyes became blown, as he licked his lips. Burr making the first move—wrenching Hamilton in by his tie, kissing him like his life depended on it—like he’d never wanted to kiss anyone as badly before—

Hamilton slamming him up against the wall, and now they were in their t-shirts. Burr taking Hamilton’s off before his own, then tugging Hamilton in by his hips, _grinding_ against him as Hamilton pushed as hard back—their bare chests blazing on each other’s skin. Burr’s hands roaming Hamilton’s body like he’d never touched a man in his life—eager and hot and demanding and finally lowering to his waistband and—

“ _Fuck_.”

Hamilton pushed through his arousal, a hand around himself, already wet, already erratic—imagining the hand was Burr’s—as his other hand clutched desperately at his sheets.

_Finish the fantasy. Finish the fantasy._

Burr spinning them around as if they were still dancing, and now Hamilton was the one being pushed up against the wall. Burr’s hungry mouth sucking and licking at every part of Hamilton’s exposed skin, moaning pleasure, moaning greed. Burr’s hand stroking Hamilton’s cock desperately—an overenthusiastic amateur. Burr’s scent in Hamilton’s nose and mouth. Burr’s scorching skin against Hamilton’s skin. Burr. _Burr_. _Burr_. _Burr_ —

Hamilton came into his hand with Burr’s first name on his lips, his hips jerking up from the mattress. He came hot and messy. Fell back onto the bed panting, head buzzing from the best kind of caffeinated exhaustion.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hamilton breathed, less urgent but just as dire.

_Aaron Burr._

Hamilton needed—Hamilton wanted—

The ceiling waited for his conclusive decree as he stared up at it.

He inhaled.

“I have to apologise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyy.  
> Thanks for reading! (I am completely lost LOL.)


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